


His Return

by Audrey_hythe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sad John, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-16 14:24:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11830593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Audrey_hythe/pseuds/Audrey_hythe
Summary: A series about Sherlock's return, and how if effects John and their potential relationship."Once Sherlock died things didn’t change much in John’s life. He still made his tea, still ordered his Chinese food on a Friday, still went to work at the surgery, still worked on his blog and still sat in his armchair reading the newspaper. What John didn’t realise was whenever he made himself tea, he made Sherlock one too. Every time he ordered Chinese he would order Sherlock’s Chicken Satay and every week leave it untouched and eventually it was thrown out. When he worked at the surgery he would stare at the walls in a daze, disconnected from his patients. Every time he updated his blog he would write about old cases and private moments the duo shared at 221B, but they were never posted. And every morning, in his armchair, he would read Sherlock the headlines, every day without fail."





	1. John

Once Sherlock died things didn’t change much in John’s life. He still made his tea, still ordered his Chinese food on a Friday, still went to work at the surgery, still worked on his blog and still sat in his armchair reading the newspaper. What John didn’t realise was whenever he made himself tea, he made Sherlock one too. Every time he ordered Chinese he would order Sherlock’s Chicken Satay and every week leave it untouched and eventually it was thrown out. When he worked at the surgery he would stare at the walls in a daze, disconnected from his patients. Every time he updated his blog he would write about old cases and private moments the duo shared at 221B, but they were never posted. And every morning, in his armchair, he would read Sherlock the headlines, every day without fail.

  
When he wasn’t busy telling Mrs Hudson he was “Fine, just tired” or Lestrade “How many times do I have to tell you, I can’t do what he did” he spent his lonely nights with Mary Morstan. Mary had a good heart and loved John but both participants knew it was never going to last forever. Whenever Mary had nightmares about her past, she would phone John and ask to go round and every time John felt lonely and empty, he would give her permission. John never declined her offers. John liked the company. He liked forgetting Sherlock’s voice in replace of Mary’s. He liked forgetting the feel of a pulseless wrist and instead caressed a warm, alive body. He liked knowing that he made Mary feel the same, even if it did only last an hour. It was one hour of his life where he didn’t feel completely lost and meaningless.

  
It had been just over two years since January 15th and still John continued his daily rituals. “‘Mother accused of taking her son, five, with her on bank robbery’. Ridiculous, isn’t it? I mean what on earth goes through some parents’ head’s…” John trailed off his sentence as he looked up from the paper and at Sherlock’s dark green leather chair, a hint of a smile on his face as he awaited approval from the ghost of a man that lives in his memory. After several seconds, the upward curve on John’s face began to sink as he himself began to grip reality, just in time as well as he heard a soft, gentle and old voice call his name before entering regardless. John closed the paper quickly, leaned back and sideways glanced at the full cup of tea with a little milk and 0.5 cubic meters of sugar and begged Mrs Hudson would just ignore it.

  
“Everything alright today dear?” Mrs Hudson asked as she took a seat on the sofa opposite the fireplace and a fair distance from John. She knew better than to even try and take a seat in His chair.

  
“Fine thank you.” John replied with a tight, forced smile, knowing that’s not what Mrs Hudson wanted to hear but both knew he’d never say any different.

  
“You sure, love?” She badgered.

  
“Completely,” John forced That smile “just tired.”

  
“Oh well John if you insist.” Mrs Hudson got up to leave and began to walk towards the door “It is a lovely day dear, do try and get some air if you can.” And with that she was off down the stairs, leaving John to stare into the warm brown liquid that sat opposite him.

  
*

  
It was freezing outside in the fresh January air. The forecast predicted snow that night and as John began to walk towards Queen Mary’s Rose Garden he began to wonder why he even began this venture out into the bitter morn. He eventually became accustom to the cold and liked the way the sharp wind made him feel numb. It was mindless walks like these that made John remember old cases. He could practically see him and Sherlock run past himself at utter speed as they ran from a Belgian tiger that had been let out of London Zoo, just across from Regents Park. He can remember their heartbeats now, thumping in sync as they slammed 221B’s door. He remembered the nauseous feeling from the transformation of stinging, midnight winter air to the heated house that remained their sanctuary away from the deadly creature.

  
After an hour of walking John began to grow tired of not being able to feel his hands and instead wanted to place them around a warm cup of tea and perhaps he’ll eat lunch today, thinking of their old cases had had a positive effect on John’s mood today which nowadays was a rare occurrence.

  
As he neared Baker Street however his mood began to drop as the sun hide behind grey clouds and he began to look up at the tall London buildings surrounding him, he began to remember. It struck him that there would be no Sherlock when he got back. There would never be a Sherlock at 221B ever again and John began to wonder if there was any point in living there without him. He rushed back through the Park and crossed the road too hastily, causing a black taxi to slam his breaks and sound his horn at John but he didn’t care. He needed to get back, he needed to change his life, to try and get over the death of his only ever real best friend.

  
The black door with the brass covered numbers and knocker flung over with a BANG as John was desperate to get out of the torrential rain that had attacked him with such force, only two hundred yards from his soon to be ex-home. But what John heard next stopped him in his tracks. He didn’t move from the door step, he didn’t dare enter the house as the notes from a violin played through his ears.

  
No. No. “No” John claimed. The soft tune was so graceful to John’s ears and the way the music flowed through callused, talented fingers sounded like Sherlock. John knew this was it. He was deranged. He had lost his sanity.

  
“Stop. Make it STOP.” John ran up the stairs as he continued to shout “I NEED TO LEAVE THIS FUCKING PLACE I CAN’T TAKE THIS” the music continued to play as John remembered all the times in which he had awoken in the middle of the night to Sherlock composing. All the times John had come back from the surgery after a long day and while he gently strolled up those infamous 221B stairs he knew his evening was going to be spent in front of a warm fire with a whisky and Sherlock’s beautiful melodies surrounding him. These thoughts spat envy at the angry John Watson who was now entering the main room “I CAN’T LIVE…” he trailed and stood rigid in the doorway.

The music played its last note before the artist turned his head. “Hello John.”


	2. Forgive Me

“Hello John.” The words rang in John’s ears, louder than any in bomb on the battle field. It was Sherlock. 

“Sherlock…” John’s voice was husked and almost whispered. He did not move nor did he continue his sentence. Sherlock stood, waiting. Waiting for something, some form of reaction from John but all he received were brown eyes scanning his body up and down, side to side. 

John stood in fear. Fear that Sherlock would disappear and that he really was going insane. Fear that now he may have another chance with Sherlock it might not be real. Fear that Sherlock rejects his feelings but fuck that because Sherlock is standing in front of him. His warm, alive body filled with B Positive blood, two lugs, two kidneys, a liver and a fully functioning heart, as far as John could tell. John Watson is not scared of anything or anyone but he is terrified of showing weakness.

After several moments of John just scanning Sherlock he announced,

“Right then. Shall I make us some tea?” He flashed a stretched, tight smile across his restless face, clipped his heels together to straighten himself up, before proceeding to march into the kitchen. All of Sherlock’s old chemistry books and science equipment was left, scattered across the entirety of what was supposed to be the dining table. As much as John wanted to leave Sherlock’s experiments as they were, he did have the brain power to dispose of rotting flesh and sticky eyeballs form a number of creatures.

Sherlock stood by the impressive 221B windows, violin still in hand by his side. He had never wanted to hurt or keep this from John. He never wanted to fake his death and cause so much grief for one person. He did not know how to come back from this but he couldn’t lose John, not after knowing how it felt to be without him for two years, one week and one day. 

“John.” Sherlock was blind to where he was going with this but he knew he had to be careful, he knew John better than anyone and he knew all it took to set John Watson off was the wrong word.

By now John had the kettle boiling. And as the water began to warm, heat began to run through John’s blood. He needed to know how Sherlock could do this to him. How could he just leave John struggling over his own life as he fought suicidal thoughts and the efforts he went through day after day, month after month to convince others he was fine, he had got so tired. And as he stood in the kitchen he once longed to see Sherlock in, he didn’t want anything more than to see him leave. 

“John before you say anything can I please explain.” After carefully placing the violin back in its case, Sherlock began creeping closer and closer towards John, before stopping a foot away from him. John hadn’t felt the presence of a body, he hadn’t noticed others since Sherlock’s ‘death’ until now, until Sherlock himself was so close to him. He felt sick. It was getting too much. The water continued to boil hotter and hotter.

“Go ahead.” John said as he crossed his arms, breathed out an almost sickly chuckle and turned his neck to face Sherlock, eye to eye. 

“I needed to fake my death John for so many reasons. Do you know how hard it’s been trying to think of ways to come back? I only did it this way because Molly said you’d be less likely to punch me and…” but before Sherlock could say anymore John had hitched onto his story. The kettle was making small eruption noises and began to jolt in its place.

“Molly? Hang on, so Molly knew before me?” he was in disbelief. Sherlock had realised now what had slipped and began to coware away from his sentence.

“Yes.” He knew that if he was ever going to get John to listen to him he had to be patient and to be honest. 

“How long?” John quipped. 

“Three days.” Sherlock replied, dipping his head in shame. The kettle burst steam as it jerked and jolted.

“Let me get this straight,” John started as he pushed himself away from the cabinets and half a foot closer to Sherlock “Molly Hooper. Molly Fucking Hooper knew you were alive before me? BEFORE JOHN WATSON.” Tick. The water was ready. 

“John.” He was attentive, “I do believe Molly’s middle name is Louise not...”

“I DON’T GIVE A SHIT SHERLOCK!” John was beginning to lose it, and Sherlock was beginning to lose him.

“John please. Let me make tea and I can explain it all.” The kettle had settled down as John began his decent into the lounge, having to pass Sherlock in the process and trying to hide his flushed face. Sherlock went about arranging the tea cups and the Fortnum and Mason tea strainer and leaves as John sat in his armchair, head propped against his right hand as his elbow was supported by the armchair. He needed to hold himself together, John Watson wasn’t weak.

Sherlock entered through the double doors from the kitchen and placed a tea cup and saucer in front of John, filled with boiling orange infused tea. John’s new favourite.

“I guess Mycroft fed you everything I’ve done since you’ve been gone.” John accused with annoyance, as he sacrificed the support his head was receiving in exchange with picking up his tea. John’s favourite tea had changed frequently what with Sherlock being gone all there was to do was drink it. 

“I had him make sure you were kept alive and well.” He stated before proceeding to take the tiniest of sips from his cup. “John, know I did this all for you. Everything.” Sherlock’s eye’s bored into John’s soul, pleading with him to just “Forgive me, please.”

*  
John sat on the edge of his bed, back up right, fingers intertwined together in a ball between his thighs, allowing the day’s events to wash over him. His phone continued to buzz on his bed side table but he didn’t need to look to know that it was Mary calling. But he didn’t want Mary. Things between Sherlock and him had been different leading up to the days before he faked his death what with John being the only human who believed Sherlock was innocent. They spent night after night together, planning how they were going to prove Sherlock was innocent but they didn’t look over the case files they had on ‘Richard Brook’ separately in their armchairs, no. They breathed each other’s air as they examined the case, sat tightly next to one another on the sofa. Their hands began to brush more frequently, Sherlock’s eyes began to linger on John for a lot longer than what was normal. But John didn’t know what Sherlock was thinking and Sherlock didn’t know how much John wanted, needed him. As John turned his head towards his luminous phone a gentle voiced coaxed him,

“Don’t answer it John.” Sherlock had pushed the door open lightly and was standing in the doorway, unsure of what to do with himself. Sherlock needed John to forgive him, he needed to know he still had one friend and no matter how hard it was going to be, Sherlock had to be the one to gain his colleague, his friendship, his trust back.

“John.” His head immediately snapped back to Sherlock. “She’s no good for you.”

“No, but you are?” He meant for the comment to sound vicious and hurtful but he was tired of trying to be angry at Sherlock, he just needed him to see through his snide comments, he begged for Sherlock to be able read him.

Sherlock crossed over the door boarder and into John’s personal space. He knew that John was confused, he wasn’t all that stupid after all. Sherlock knew John had caught onto their rare but highly intimate moments they shared which made everything considerably worse when it came to leaving. John had been strong for so long, it was his turn now.

Sherlock came to stand in front of John before kneeling in between his legs and putting his right hand on John’s leg. John held his breath as Sherlock looked directly at him. 

“Please.” John held his hands where they were. He tried to hold the gaze but Sherlock’s eyes burning into him was too much and he looked back towards the phone which was still buzzing. Sherlock couldn’t lose him. Fight Sherlock fight, is all he could repeat to himself as he gripped the older man’s thigh. Fight!

“John,” he gently guided John’s chin towards him again with his spare hand, and forced their eyes to meet once more. Sherlock began to lean towards John while simultaneously edging John forward. Sherlock was millimetres away from John’s lips as he looked down directly at them, a weird feeling of arousal and emotions filled his stomach but he had to be brave, he had to do this for them, for John. 

John’s heart was pounding as his eyes darted up and down Sherlock’s features. John did not have long for his brain to catch up with what his eyes were seeing before Sherlock stopped dead, his lips ghosting John’s as he whispered,

“Forgive me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry this is so late I have been working all week and I was meant to get a jab but I didn't and I went out in London last night, very messy, but I hope this chapter was worth the wait.
> 
> As always let me know, constructive criticism is more than welcome.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all enjoyed and please Kudos if you want more and to see how this ends. I don't really know how long I plan to make this series but defiantly a few more chapters, all depending on whether you all like or not :).


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